


the breaking of spring

by vtforpedro



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bagginshield Summer Surprise Event, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-17
Updated: 2017-07-17
Packaged: 2018-12-03 11:37:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11531430
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vtforpedro/pseuds/vtforpedro
Summary: In which there is summer gardening and naps under the sun.





	the breaking of spring

Thorin wakes to a pleasantly warm morning, one that he had not expected, but is immediately glad for. It seems summer has arrived and finally chased away the remnants of a long, cold spring. While he is used to such springs, they are not usually in the Shire of all good, green places, so he is immensely relieved that it has finally come to an end. Even their April was filled with snow flurries and freezing rains.

Now it is a bright and sunny morning, birds singing their greeting songs, and the sounds of fauntlings playing in the fields beyond carries to him. Thorin stretches and yawns, then looks to his left, and at the bundle of blankets hiding a certain hobbit from his view. With some trepidation, Thorin rolls onto his side and reaches for the blankets, pulling them down until he sees golden curls.

They are sweaty.

Thorin frowns and presses the back of his hand to Bilbo’s forehead, then sighs. There is still a mild fever.

Bilbo had been fighting a head cold for a few days that had turned into something more, with a fever and chills, and he has been exceptionally grumpy and ill-mannered. Not that Thorin blames him, of course, but he feels as if they should have gotten a break by now from this illness. Bilbo had reassured him that this happens to him yearly and then promptly kicked him out from their bedroom, stating that his mother-henning was only making things worse.

Thorin is still unsure how extra handkerchiefs, many pots of tea, and snuggles made anything worse, but he trusted Bilbo to know what he needed, and left him be.

He rubs Bilbo’s arm until his hobbit grumbles and shakes him off, then leans in and presses a kiss to a sticky temple. He climbs out of bed and hurries across the hall to use the washroom, then goes to the kitchen and makes a pot of soothing chamomile with a bit of vanilla and honey for a sore throat. Once that is finished, he loads up a tray with soft biscuits, and takes it to their bedroom, stepping in and going to the bedside table next to Bilbo. He sets everything down and takes a moment to observe his sickly husband.

Bilbo’s cheeks are a bit flushed and his brow is turned down in a permanent frown but he does seem to be sleeping soundly.

“Did you bring tea?”

Well, it had only seemed so.

“Aye,” Thorin answers, reaching down and brushing Bilbo’s hair from his forehead. “And biscuits. You should eat something. How do you fare?”

“My fever broke some time in the night but I’m afraid it’s come back this morning,” Bilbo says, his voice raspy and hoarse. He opens one eye, squinting up at Thorin, then looks at the tray. He heaves a pained sigh, then fights his way out of his cocoon of blankets, until he is sitting up against the headboard of the bed.

Thorin pours him a cup of tea and watches as he sips at it. Bilbo sends him a disgruntled look.

“I’ll be alright, you worry wart,” he says, even as he sways a bit, and his hands shake. “I’m only upset that I won’t be able to tend to the garden. It needs weeding.”

“I can manage that, if you would allow me to do so,” Thorin says, hoping more than anything that he can be of help, even if it would keep him from Bilbo’s bedside. “We would not want weeds to run rampant.”

Bilbo smiles, looking mildly amused, then half closes his eyes, and shivers. “No, we wouldn’t,” he agrees. “You are rather good at weeding by now. I suppose you could do that, if you’re feeling up for it.”

Thorin refrains from pointing out that he is not the one that is ill. “Unless you would prefer my company,” he says, a bit of a tease, and gets his desired response.

Bilbo snorts, then winces, and raises his hand to lay over his throat. “Oh dear, don’t make me laugh,” he says, voice gone rather weak. “I could do without your hovering for a while. I think I’ll go back to sleep once I’m done with this tea.”

“Eat one biscuit as well,” Thorin suggests, picking one up and splitting it in half, handing it to his husband.

He eyes the biscuit as if it something suspect but takes it after a moment and nibbles lightly on one edge. He makes a displeased face, shaking his head, and hands it back. “I can’t promise I’d keep it down. I’ll eat it when I wake again,” he says, and finishes his tea. He sets the cup on the bedside table and immediately crawls back into his blankets, burying himself up to his chin.

Thorin watches him worriedly for a moment, wondering if he should get the healer. Surely Bilbo should be feeling better by now. What if it is something more than what Missus Cotton had originally said? What if the fever stays and will not break? If Oin were here, surely he would know… perhaps Thorin should write him?

“Oh for goodness’ sake,” Bilbo whispers, and reaches out to grasp Thorin’s hand. “I’m not dying, you oaf. I’ve told you, this happens every year, right around the end of spring. I catch it from the faunts when I read them their stories. Now stop your worrying and go weed my garden.”

“But-”

“No no. I’m going back to sleep now and I don’t want to see you until you’ve eradicated them all,” Bilbo says, his grip loosening, until he takes his hand away, and Thorin keenly feels the loss.

“Very well,” he says, feeling a bit putout. He’d rather not leave Bilbo’s side but he knows where that will get him and instead leans down to bestow a kiss upon his forehead. “Sleep, _âzyungel._ If you wake before I am back, have more tea.”

There is no response, and Bilbo’s breathing sounds deeper, so Thorin suspects he has already fallen asleep. He debates lighting a fire but decides it would make the room too warm and instead hopes that the open windows will bring in a cool breeze as the morning continues on. Then perhaps Bilbo’s fever will break.

He watches his husband, then sighs, and begins to dress for a day in the garden. Once he has his straw hat on, he makes a stop in the kitchen to snag a scone, then ventures out into the garden and looks at the flower beds and vegetable patches. They do look a little worse for wear without their master’s deft hands at work these last few days and Thorin can only hope that he does a well enough job to earn Bilbo’s approval.

Though he won’t let him out of bed until he can speak without croaking.

A dragonfly catches his eye and he takes a moment to watch it fly about the garden, a staple of summer, which has truly arrived.

Thorin looks out at Hobbiton and breathes in deep, smelling the daisies and marigolds Bilbo is so proud of. He sees Mister Proudfoot down along the way tending to his own vegetable patches and smiles to himself.

Where once the differences between the Shire and Erebor were a cold, stark reminder of how far he was from home, now they are welcome, and he is glad. He is glad to be away from the throne, from the crown that sat so heavily, and from the duties that had never sat quite right within him. He takes pride in knowing he was a good king, but not the right king, not for the peaceful era they were now in. Erebor is in his nephews’ hands and he smiles to know that the mountain is safe and will prosper. All will be well there, as it is in this quaint, green place.

Thorin turns to the garden and gathers Bilbo’s tools, then begins to go to work. He attacks weeds with fervor, an entirely different sort of battle than he is used to, and takes care to not disturb any flowers, now that he knows the differences between them. A harsh lesson learned, one that he would rather not repeat.

The sun climbs higher in the sky and beats down upon his back, warm, but not quite hot yet, and he basks in it, attempting not to grow sleepy in its cozy caresses. He thinks he takes too many naps as it is; his hobbit is a bad influence.

Thorin visits Bilbo once when he takes a break to get a glass of cool water and sees him sleeping still, in what might have been a peaceful rest, if not for his fever. Neither the tea nor the biscuits have been disturbed but Thorin knows that he needs rest above all else and leaves him be, venturing back out into the garden, this time to water the flowers and vegetables.

When he has done as much as can be expected of his rather limited skills (despite the dedicated lessons from Bilbo), he takes up his pipe on the smoking bench and blows smoke rings (lessons much easier learned).

He says good morning to any passersby and answers their inquiries of how Bilbo fares. He knows that his honest answer will lead to casseroles and bakes and many different types of soft treats and perhaps it is selfish of him, but he will be glad not to cook, and simply feed his hobbit without any fuss. His cooking is well enough these days but he has exhausted the meals he knows how to make that would not be a strain on a sore throat.

Thorin yawns and scrubs his eyes once he has finished his pipe, and sets it aside on the bench, then stretches his arms above his head. As he observes the daily life of Hobbiton down the hill, he begins to eye the soft, grassy ground by the garden, which looks rather too tempting. The grass is especially luscious now, bright green, and shining in the sun. It is surrounded by wildflowers in that particular area and Thorin is sure he has never seen something so inviting since last his husband’s arms were open to him.

He stands and ventures to the spot, taking a surreptitious look around, then immediately falls into the grass, and breathes deeply out, covering his face with his straw hat. He smiles to himself, settling into the soft ground, and breathes in the smell of coneflowers, and the bread someone is baking down the lane, rich and homey.

It is not long before his casual thoughts become a bit dazed and he begins to doze in the afternoon sun.

Eventually the sound of snuffling and shuffling reaches his ears and he feels the warmth of another settle at his side, curling into him.

“You are supposed to be in bed,” he says, lifting his hat and cracking an eye open, looking at Bilbo.

Bilbo, who is wrapped up in their entire duvet, and curled into his side, his head on Thorin’s shoulder.

“My fever broke,” he defends, in a pitifully hoarse voice, but he does indeed look less flushed.

“That does not mean you should be out of bed,” Thorin says, searching under the duvet until he finds Bilbo’s thigh, and squeezes it.

Bilbo sniffs, and it is not of the ill variety. “I saw you lazing about when I had to use the washroom and you looked so comfortable that I simply had to join you,” he says, draping an arm over Thorin’s stomach. “The garden looks very fine.”

“Thank you,” Thorin says, amused. He tosses his hat aside and leans in to place a kiss on Bilbo’s cool forehead. “You should eat something, Bilbo. We need to keep your strength up so the fever does not come back.”

“Oh, I’ll be fine for a few minutes more,” Bilbo says, and the blanket moves a bit, which Thorin takes as an attempting swatting. But then Bilbo nuzzles into his shoulder and lets out a sigh, which sounds pleased, and not pained, and something in Thorin’s heart unclenches.

They lay in silence, listening to the birds sing, and someone chopping wood down the lane, and the wind rustling the leaves of the oak tree above Bag End. It is hard not to doze again and Thorin finds himself fighting off sleepiness, half wrapped up in a blanket, and with Bilbo’s warmth at his side. His soft breathing is slow and measured, and Thorin thinks that he has fallen asleep himself.

Perhaps he should not be so worried about a short nap.

When at last he opens his eyes again, the sun has moved further west, though it is still shining brightly overhead, and he blinks sleep away. Then he feels Bilbo’s hand stroking over his ribs.

“Do you know, this is the best I’ve felt in days,” Bilbo whispers after a while, voice thick, and sounds genuinely content.

Thorin smiles. “I am glad to hear it,” he says, and turns his head, looking into hazel eyes so close to his. “Hobbits do thrive when they are outdoors and surrounded by their rolling hills.”

Bilbo chuckles and though it seems like a bit of a struggle, rolls onto his back, his eyes sliding shut, and a gloriously beautiful smile on his lips. “Sleeping under the open sky was a good idea, indeed,” he says, and seeks out Thorin’s hand under the duvet. “But I think I’m ready to brave a few biscuits.”

Thorin is relieved to hear it and sits up, yawning. “Then let us go and find some,” he says, standing, and holds out a hand to his husband.

Bilbo takes it, and lets himself be pulled gently to his feet, making a valiant effort to keep himself wrapped up in his duvet. He smiles at Thorin, and while he looks very tired, and rather too pale to be healthy yet, his eyes are brighter, and his usual happiness more apparent.

“I know I’m a bit crotchety when I’m sick but thank you for taking care of me, love,” he says.

Thorin leans in and presses his forehead to Bilbo’s. “Always, _amrâlimê._ Always,” he says quietly.

And then he lifts Bilbo fairly off his feet, ignoring his squawking, and grins as he carries him inside to find biscuits, and quite a lot of chamomile tea, and perhaps a few kisses along the way.

**Author's Note:**

> For [aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain's](http://aquilea-of-the-lonely-mountain.tumblr.com/) Bagginshield Summer Surprise, with the prompt "Sleeping under the open sky was a good idea indeed."
> 
> Remember to leave kudos and let me know what you think!
> 
>  [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/vtforpedro)


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